Part 2

Johnnie Green rode Mistah Mule into the meadow. Mistah Mule seemed to be, as Farmer Green had said, a fine saddle animal. He had an amble that was as gentle as the sway of a rocking chair. His trot didn’t jounce Johnnie a bit. He cantered delightfully.

Johnnie Green was greatly pleased with his mount. “I wish I owned him,” he thought. “I wonder if Father would swap him for the Muley Cow.” The Muley Cow belonged to Johnnie Green. She would have felt terribly if she had known what was in his mind.

Mistah Mule soon proved himself a good jumper. He cleared the brook easily. And then he scrambled up the bank and began to race down the long gentle slope that stretched toward Cedar Swamp.

Now, Johnnie Green liked to ride at a gallop. Mistah Mule showed a burst of speed that pleased him. But in a few moments it seemed to Johnnie that Mistah Mule was traveling faster with every jump.

“He can’t be running away,” Johnnie muttered, as if trying to put out of his head any notion that Mistah Mule might be doing that very thing. And then Johnnie began to pull upon the reins. “Whoa!” he cried, not meaning that he wanted Mistah Mule to stop, but only that he wished him to gallop more slowly.

Well, Mistah Mule had promised the old horse Ebenezer that he would do exactly as Johnnie Green said. So now, when his rider cried, “Whoa!” he stiffened his legs and came down upon all fours instantly. He stopped short. Nobody could say that he hadn’t obeyed Johnnie Green.

But Johnnie Green himself did not stop so quickly. On he went. He shot along Mistah Mule’s neck, slipped over his head, in spite of a frantic clutch at Mistah Mule’s ears, and sailed sprawling through the air.

Some distance in front of Mistah Mule, Johnnie Green struck the ground. Though the grass was almost knee-high, Johnnie found his landing-place far from soft. And while he lay there, gasping for breath, Mistah Mule suddenly turned and trotted toward the farm buildings.

Johnnie struggled to his feet and ran after him. He tried to call out to him to stop. But not a word could he utter.

There was a great flurry in the farmyard when Mistah Mule came home with his saddle empty. Later, in the barn, the old horse Ebenezer spoke to him very severely. But Mistah Mule declared that it wasn’t his fault at all that Johnnie Green had been thrown.

“That boy,” he told Ebenezer, “he done say, ‘Whoa!’ An’ I whoaed!”

XI

TROUBLESOME MR. CROW

Though they both lived on the same farm, which belonged to Farmer Green, Mistah Mule and the Muley Cow were not on speaking terms. The Muley Cow had spent years there. She had seen so many queer strangers come and go that she paid little heed to new arrivals unless she knew that they were going to be what she called “permanent,” meaning that they were there to stay.

Of course she began to hear about Mistah Mule, from the day when he kicked Farmer Green. And she said then that Mistah Mule wouldn’t be there long. She had such a poor opinion of him that she wouldn’t even turn her head to look at the newcomer about whom all her friends were talking.

“There he is! He’s the fellow that kicked Farmer Green,” the Muley Cow’s neighbors would tell her. And they couldn’t understand why she wasn’t interested.

At last, however, somebody said something to the Muley Cow that made her both think and talk of very little except Mistah Mule. Up in the hillside pasture old Mr. Crow settled down upon the fence near her.

“Good morning!” he cried. “How are you to-day? And how’s your cousin?”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” the Muley Cow replied. “But which cousin do you mean? You know, half the herd is related to me. I have first cousins, second cousins, third cousins, fourth cousins----”

“Yes! Yes!” Mr. Crow interrupted. “I don’t mean your _Cow_ cousins. I mean Mistah Mule.”

“What?” exclaimed the Muley Cow with an angry toss of her hornless head. “What? Sir! How dare you call that wretched creature my cousin?”

Old Mr. Crow chuckled. He loved to tease the Muley Cow.

“Well,” he replied, “there’s his name. ‘Mule’ and ‘Muley’ are a good deal alike, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps! Perhaps!” spluttered the Muley Cow. “But this Mistah Mule and I are not the least bit alike.”

“Well,” said old Mr. Crow with a grin, “there’s his tail.”

“What about his tail?” snapped the Muley Cow.

“It’s very much like yours,” Mr. Crow replied. “It’s a tufted tail. It’s nothing like the old horse Ebenezer’s tail. If Mistah Mule’s tail isn’t the same kind as yours, then I’m not a bird.”

By this time Mr. Crow had driven the Muley Cow almost frantic.

“I don’t care what sort of tail Mistah Mule has,” she declared. “He certainly is no cousin of mine. He is not related to me, even distantly.”

“Perhaps not!” said Mr. Crow. “Anyhow, I’ll see what Mistah Mule himself says about that.”

XII

TWO BLACK RASCALS

Old Mr. Crow was in luck. He wanted to have a neighborly chat with Mistah Mule. Not daring to fly inside the barn, he was a bit puzzled as to how he could meet Mistah Mule. And then came the good luck. Farmer Green turned Mistah Mule into the pasture.

From the top of a tall elm not far from the cornfield Mr. Crow spied Mistah Mule cropping grass near the pasture bars. About half a minute later Mr. Crow flopped down upon the topmost bar and called, “Good morning, friend!”

Mistah Mule raised his head. He had never seen Mr. Crow before. But he addressed him in a most familiar fashion. “Howdy, Jim!” he answered.

Old Mr. Crow choked. He hated to be called “Jim,” because it really was his name, which he greatly disliked.

“Isn’t I met you before, down South?” Mistah Mule inquired.

“I hardly think so,” Mr. Crow replied. “I’ve been spending the winters in the North for a good many years. I haven’t been South since I don’t know when. And--er--when you speak to me, or of me, kindly omit the ‘Jim.’ Just say, ‘Mr. Crow.’”

Mistah Mule nodded. “I doesn’t blame you, not the leastest bit,” he remarked. “I knows just how you feels.”

“We won’t talk about _that_ any more,” said Mr. Crow. “I came to talk about an entirely different matter.”

“What’s that?” Mistah Mule inquired.

“Your tail!” Mr. Crow explained. “You know, it’s rather an odd one.”

Mistah Mule was so surprised that he turned his head and looked back at his tail.

“I doesn’t see anything queer about it,” he murmured.

“Think hard!” Mr. Crow urged him. “Doesn’t it remind you of other tails on this farm?”

“No, sah!” Mistah Mule declared.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that your tail is somewhat like a Cow’s?” Mr. Crow went on.

Mistah Mule was puzzled. He even seemed alarmed.

“This here is my own tail!” he cried. “Can’t nobody say I stole it.”

“Certainly not!” Mr. Crow agreed. “I’ll explain more carefully. There’s a Cow on this farm that everybody calls ‘the Muley Cow.’ Just to tease her, I want you to pretend you’re her cousin and that your two tails are a good deal alike.”

“But I isn’t got two tails!” bellowed Mistah Mule. And again he turned his head, as if to make sure that another tail hadn’t crept up behind him, when he wasn’t looking.

“My goodness!” Mr. Crow muttered. “It’s hard to talk with this person.”

XIII

MISTAH MULE LAUGHS

Old Mr. Crow, at his very first meeting with Mistah Mule, decided that he was somewhat stupid. When Mr. Crow spoke of the Muley Cow, and said to Mistah Mule, “I want you to pretend that your two tails are alike,” Mistah Mule actually didn’t know what the old gentleman was talking about. He actually looked around to make sure he hadn’t two tails of his own!

“Of course you haven’t two tails,” Mr. Crow told him. “I mean, _yours_ and _hers_.”

“Yes’m--yes, sah!” said Mistah Mule. “But how is I a-goin’ to pretend that? If a fly lights on my back, does you ’spect the Muley Cow a-goin’ to swish it off with _her_ tail?”

“No! No! Certainly not!” cried old Mr. Crow.

“Yes’m--yes, sah! If a fly lights on the Muley Cow’s back, I’se a-goin’ to swish it off with _my_ tail.”

“No! No! My goodness, no!” exclaimed old Mr. Crow. “Listen to me. I’ll explain carefully. I trust--” he added--“I trust it’s not necessary for me to use words of one syllable.”

“One which?” Mistah Mule inquired, cocking a long ear towards Mr. Crow.

Mr. Crow paid no heed to the question. “I’ll put it this way,” he said: “I want to have a little fun with the Muley Cow. I want to tease her a bit. So when you meet her--as you’re sure to, if you stay here on the farm--just say, ‘Good morning, madam! I see your tail is very much like mine.’ Now you understand, don’t you?”

Mistah Mule scratched his head with one hind foot. Something still puzzled him.

“How that a-goin’ to _tease_ her?” he asked. “’Pears to me it a-goin’ to _please_ her.”

“You think so?” Mr. Crow retorted with a sly smile. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Try it, anyhow. And let me know what she says to you.”

Then Mr. Crow flew away towards the cornfield.

“Huh!” Mistah Mule grunted as he watched Mr. Crow growing smaller and smaller in the distance. “That ole rascal, he a-tryin’ to git me into trouble. That old Jim Crow, he think he’s mighty sly. But I reckon maybe I kin play a trick or two my own self.” And Mistah Mule laughed in his odd fashion, “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”

’Way over in the cornfield Mr. Crow heard him. And the old gentleman stopped right in the middle of a chuckle.

“I’d give an ear of corn,” he said aloud, “to know what he’s laughing at.”

XIV

OBLIGING A LADY

Old Mr. Crow had said that the Muley Cow and Mistah Mule were sure to meet, if Mistah Mule stayed at Farmer Green’s place. And they did. One day Mistah Mule was pulling at a choice clump of clover, in the pasture, when an elderly dame thrust her head over the stone wall near-by, stared at him for a few seconds, swallowed her cud, and spoke.

“Good morning!” she called out. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the person they’re all talking about. You’re Mistah Mule.”

“Yes’m!” Mistah Mule mumbled.

“Would you be so kind as to turn around for a moment?” the old lady asked. “I’m the Muley Cow and I’d like to see your tail.”

“Yes’m!” Mistah Mule repeated, as he wheeled about.

“That will do, thank you!” the Muley Cow told him presently. “I wanted to look at your tail. Old Mr. Crow told me it was a good deal like my own.”

“Yes’m!” said Mistah Mule.

“So you agree with Mr. Crow!” exclaimed the Muley Cow quickly.

“No’m!”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” the Muley Cow replied. “Your tail is _not_ like mine. It has no beautiful curl dangling at the end of it, like this one of mine.”

Mistah Mule walked up to the stone wall and laughed in his strange fashion.

“That ole Crow, he try to make trouble for me an’ you,” he informed the Muley Cow. “He say for me to tell you our tails is like enough to be twins. But I says, that ole black scamp better do his errands his own self. I has seen too many of his folkses down South, where I comes from, to do what he tell me. I a-goin’ do just what he _don’t_ tell me!”

“Well! Well!” cried the Muley Cow. “You’re a person of some sense, after all. You surprise me, sir. I had a very poor opinion of you, when I heard that you had kicked Farmer Green.”

Mistah Mule looked very uneasy.

“I ain’t goin’ to do that no more,” he said. And he hung his head.

“You sent Johnnie Green flying, the first time he rode you,” the Muley Cow went on. “I hope you won’t do that again, either.”

“No’m!” Mistah Mule murmured.

“You see, ma’am, I’se never lived ’mong kind people before. They certainly has treated me fine on this farm.”

“I’m delighted to have met you--delighted!” cried the Muley Cow. “I shall tell all my friends that you’re going to be on your best behavior from this time on.”

“Yes’m!” said Mistah Mule. “So long as they doesn’t ask me to work!”

The Muley Cow smiled. She thought that was just one of Mistah Mule’s jokes.

XV

TOO MANY QUESTIONS

From his favorite perch in the top of a tall elm old Mr. Crow saw Mistah Mule and the Muley Cow talking together. He hurriedly gathered a dozen of his friends, whom he found in the cornfield, and led them in a headlong flight to the pasture. He had promised them good sport, teasing the Muley Cow.

The crew of Crows found the Muley Cow in the shade of a maple tree, chewing her cud.

“A--ahem!” said Mr. Crow to the old dame. “Did you have a pleasant chat with Mistah Mule?”

“Very!” the Muley Cow replied. “I must say that I found Mistah Mule quite gentlemanly, which is something I haven’t found _some of my neighbors_.”

Her answer almost took Mr. Crow’s breath away.

“There’s a mistake somewhere,” he croaked, amid the loud laughter of his friends. “I should like to know what Mistah Mule said to you.”

“He said something about you, Mr. Crow. But I’d rather not repeat it.”

Old Mr. Crow tried to make himself heard above the clamor of his cronies, who were having a better time, even, than they had expected.

“That Mistah Mule is two-faced,” he declared. “I’m going straight to him and ask him what he means by gossiping about me.”

“We’ll come too!” cried his friends.

He wished they would go away. But they all followed him as he sailed over the hillside and settled down beside Mistah Mule.

“What did you say to the Muley Cow?” Mr. Crow demanded fiercely of that dusky fellow.

“I done told her I didn’t ’spect to work none on this farm,” said Mistah Mule with a grin.

“Ha! I can well believe that,” cried Mr. Crow. “And what else, pray, did you say to her?”

“You mean, did I done say somethin’ ’bout a ole black rascal who thinks hisself mighty smart?” Mistah Mule inquired mildly.

A chorus of loud caws greeted this question. And Mr. Crow flew into a rage.

“There’s no use talking with this great clown,” he said to his friends. “It’s impossible to converse with him.” And rising swiftly, Mr. Crow tore off toward the woods. His friends followed him, jeering boisterously. And Mistah Mule gave voice to a loud _hee-haw_, which only made Mr. Crow fly the faster.

Mistah Mule stood still and watched his late callers straggle into the cover of the tree-tops.

“I doesn’t look to see that old Crow ’round here agin in a hurry,” he murmured.

“I certainly hope not!” said somebody in a squeaky tone, right at his feet.

“My sakes! Who’s here?” Mistah Mule exclaimed.

XVI

ALL ABOUT GHOSTS

When Mistah Mule heard the tiny, squeaky voice, he didn’t know, at first, who had spoken. He looked all around for some moments before he spied two beady bright eyes peeping up at him from beneath a plantain leaf.

“Sakes alive!” Mistah Mule exclaimed then. “I thought they was ghostses ’round here.”

“No!” said the small person who eyed him steadily. “I am not one of those things. I am Master Meadow Mouse.”

“I hearn a voice but I didn’t see nobody,” Mistah Mule explained. “That’s the way with ghostses. An’ if you sees ’em, you doesn’t hear ’em.” He shivered slightly as he spoke, although the weather was by no means cold.

“Have you ever seen one?” Master Meadow Mouse asked him.

“N--no! Can’t say as I has,” answered Mistah Mule. “But my mammy, ’way down South, she tell me all ’bout ’em.”

“I never heard of such things as ‘ghostses’ before,” said Master Meadow Mouse. “But now I think I must have heard one about a minute ago. I was asleep over there under that bush. And there was the queerest sound. That’s what brought me here. I came to find out what it was.”

“Was it a dreadful, hollow noise?” Mistah Mule asked him.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Sound like somebody tormented?”

“Yes! Yes!”

Mr. Mule nodded wisely. “It certainly was a ghost,” he declared. “Queer I didn’t notice it. I been right here quite a while. Kin you make a noise like it?”

“I’ll try,” Master Meadow Mouse replied. And he gave a funny, squeaky _hee-haw_!

“My goodness!” cried Mistah Mule. “That was my own self you done hear! I was laughin’.”

“You were laughing?” Master Meadow Mouse exclaimed, as if he couldn’t quite believe there was anybody, anywhere, that laughed in such a terrible fashion.

“Uh--huh!” said Mistah Mule. “I done laugh at ole Jim Crow.”

“You must mean old Mr. Crow,” Master Meadow Mouse observed.

“Uh--huh!” said Mistah Mule once more.

Master Meadow Mouse knew that he meant “Yes!”

XVII

MINDING HIS MOTHER

“What’s your name?” Master Meadow Mouse asked Mistah Mule.

Mistah Mule told him.

“I shouldn’t think you’d dare to laugh when you’re alone,” Master Meadow Mouse remarked.

“’Cause why?” inquired Mistah Mule.

“I should think the sound of your laugh would scare you terribly,” Master Meadow Mouse explained. “And how awful, if--when you were alone--you got to laughing and couldn’t stop!”

This remark so amused Mistah Mule that he couldn’t help laughing again. And Master Meadow Mouse promptly tumbled right over backward. He was sadly frightened. But he soon pulled himself together.

“Do you suppose,” he asked, “I could learn to make that sound? It would be pleasant, when anybody chases you, to turn around quickly and _hee-haw_ right in his face. It’s a fine way to frighten a person.”

“Keep a-tryin’ whenever you gits a chance,” Mistah Mule suggested.

Just then another little person came creeping through the grass. It was Master Meadow Mouse’s mother.

“I’ll try it on her,” Master Meadow Mouse whispered. And scampering up to his mother, he said in his tiny, squeaky voice, “_Hee-haw!_”

“There! You’re catching cold!” his mother exclaimed. “You sneezed. Come right home and drink some hot ginger tea. You must wear your rubbers when the dew is on the grass.”

“Excuse me, Ma! I was not sneezing. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my friend here,” said Master Meadow Mouse.

“Friend! What friend?” his mother replied, looking in every direction except up. She didn’t see Mistah Mule, who towered above her like a mountain.

“Him!” said Master Meadow Mouse, pointing upward.

His mother raised her head. And when she beheld Mistah Mule she gave a shrill scream.

“What monster is this?” she cried.

“He isn’t a monster. He’s Mistah Mule,” Master Meadow Mouse told her.

“Come away!” Mrs. Meadow Mouse begged her son. “It’s not safe to be so near him. He could swallow you and me both at the same time.”

Of course Mistah Mule had never eaten a mouse of any sort. The good lady’s fright amused him. “_Hee-haw! Hee-haw!_” he laughed.

“Run, child! Run!” Mrs. Meadow Mouse shrieked. And gathering up her petticoats, she dashed for the nearest tree and squirmed her way down among the roots, out of sight.

Meanwhile Master Meadow Mouse began galloping about Mistah Mule in a circle. Watching his small new friend, Mistah Mule slowly turned round and round in his tracks.

“What for you does that?” he inquired at last.

“My mother told me to run,” Master Meadow Mouse explained. “I always try to mind my mother.”

XVIII

GOING FOR A DRIVE

Everybody on the farm agreed that Mistah Mule was growing better natured. Even Farmer Green had to admit that Mistah Mule’s behavior had improved.

One day Johnnie Green’s father wished to send his son to the village, on an errand.

“I’m going to let you drive the mule,” he told Johnnie. “We’ll hitch him to the light wagon. Here’s a letter to the store-keeper. He’ll give you a part for the mowing-machine. Hurry right back with it.”

A few minutes later Mistah Mule trotted briskly out of the yard, with Johnnie Green sitting very straight on the wagon-seat.

Now, in spite of his long ears and his odd tail, Mistah Mule had a certain style about him. For all he was lazy, when he chose to behave himself he moved his small, narrow feet in a smart way. And when he trotted he raised his knees quite high, in a fashionable manner. Moreover, he had a sleek black coat, which glistened in the sunshine.

Johnnie Green couldn’t help feeling rather proud as Mistah Mule went down the road at a spanking trot.

“We’ll be back home long before Father expects us,” he thought.

Soon Mistah Mule’s feet were thumping over the great covered bridge that crossed the river. And in a short time they began to climb the long hill that rose from the valley. Beyond this hill lay the village.

Mistah Mule fell into a walk. A slow walk it was. The sun, beating down upon Johnnie Green’s back, felt scorching hot. It beat down upon Mistah Mule’s back, too. And he began to think that it would be foolish to climb that mile-long hill ahead of him, dragging the wagon and Johnnie Green behind him. His head drooped. His ears flopped back and forth with every step. And at last he moved so slowly that Johnnie Green spoke to him.

“Get along, there!” he cried, drawing the reins tighter.

Mistah Mule stopped short.

“Giddap! Giddap!” Johnnie shouted. “My goodness! I hope he isn’t going to balk. Go on, there!” And he slapped Mistah Mule with the reins.

Mistah Mule laid back his ears, slowly turned his head, and stared at Johnnie Green. There was no doubt that he had balked.

Johnnie didn’t know what to do. His father was waiting for that part for the mowing-machine. And Johnnie hadn’t even reached the village yet.

He sat unhappily on the seat for a few minutes. And then he made up his mind that he would do something. “I’m going to tie this old mule to a tree and walk to the village and back,” he decided.

So he jumped from the wagon and tried to lead Mistah Mule out of the road.

But that stubborn fellow wouldn’t stir.

XIX

THE RACE

Two hours passed. And Farmer Green began to stop his work now and then and glance down the road.

“Johnnie ought to be coming along any minute now,” he said to the hired man.

“He ought to, unless that mule has taken a notion to balk,” the hired man replied.

“Oh! I don’t think he’ll do that,” said Farmer Green. “He hasn’t balked for a long time.”

But when another hour had slipped by and Johnnie and Mistah Mule were still missing, Farmer Green began to feel uneasy. So he hitched one of the bays to a buggy. And away he went, down the road, with old dog Spot racing along after him.

Spot kept carefully out of sight, beneath the buggy, until they reached the bridge. Then he dashed out and begged for a ride. He knew that he was too far from home for Farmer Green to send him back.

Farmer Green stopped the bay and told Spot to jump up. Then they hurried on again.